


lost

by darlathecyborgpluviophile



Series: gossamer vessels [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chronic Pain, Flashbacks, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nightmares, POV Third Person, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Self-Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Touch Aversion, Trauma Recovery, World of Ruin, in both a literary and a psychological sense haha, past promdyn, past self harm, relationship downs, this one is noct-centric, touch starvation, traumatic injuries
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:28:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlathecyborgpluviophile/pseuds/darlathecyborgpluviophile
Summary: If he were to go back and warn his younger self of the darkness lurking beneath the skin of his best friend, he probably wouldn’t believe it.Time has not been kind to them.





	1. lost

**Author's Note:**

> This story contains graphic depictions of self harm, so please turn away now if that is something that will hurt you. <3

Ignis and Gladio are waiting at the backstage door as soon as the speech ends.

Noct thanks every god in the Hexatheon that there wasn't audience participation planned for this night as he makes his way straight there. A Q&A would only drain his lacking energy further. He's exhausted, he's in pain, and he just wants to get home.

The three men walk through the decaying streets of Lestallum, alternating between crumbling brick and pavement as they thread their way to Noctis and Prompto's apartment building. They don't say much to one another, all worn down by managing the evening. Noct’s speech, intended as a buoy for those who came to hear it, hasn’t had a lasting effect on those who put it together.

The night sky above is the same sight they've had to contend with for six years now - inky, unforgiving black, with shreds of daemonic miasma showering from the clouds in place of rain. Eventually Gladio sweeps off his coat and puts it around Noct's head and shoulders for protection, the weight of the fabric nestling his crown back into his hair at an awkward angle. Noct feels the bone digging into his scalp, and worries it's going to slip and fall all the way home.

Noctis tries to shrug off his retainers once they reach the front door of their destination, insisting that he can make it up three flights by himself. Failing that, Prompto would more than likely be able to hear his cries and rescue him, the walls here being thin as they are.

Ignis shakes his head, and holds out the crook of his elbow. At least he only has to cram into the building’s tiny elevator with one of them tonight.

It's only when Noctis is about to step through the front door of his apartment proper that he remembers Gladio's glaive coat, and gives it to Ignis to return. After, he spends a few moments brushing the flaky Night out of Noct’s hair and down the sleeves of his suit jacket. Noct sighs.

"I want you to know that you're doing well," Ignis says, the first full sentence he's said to him since before the speech. If he had his eyes, Noct suspects they'd be meeting his own dead-on. "You make a fine King, Noct."

Such words don't come easily, and yet when Noctis hears them he feels...nothing. Nothing except the tail end of his crown jabbing into the tender skin behind his ear.

"Thanks," Noct replies, and it comes out as dim as he feels.

"Get some rest. Alright?" Ignis's spindly fingers rest on his shoulder for a brief moment and squeeze.

"Right." Noct nods.

"And say hello to Prompto for me."

"Right," Noct repeats. "I will."

Ignis nods in response, and walks past Noctis to make his way back to the elevator.

Noctis sighs. He turns to grasp the doorknob, but every step he takes with his bad leg sends fresh pain spiraling up through his knee. He hisses - fuck, all he wants is a shower and a decent night's sleep.

He enters through the living room and, surprisingly, Prompto isn't on the couch waiting to greet him. In fact, he's nowhere in the main rooms at all.

Is it possible he's not back yet? He couldn't make it to see the speech because of a pressing hunt. But recalling the map, the location wasn't so far down the highway that he shouldn't be back by now.

Worry - the first emotion he's felt in hours - twists Noct's stomach, threatening to bring up his meager dinner.

"Prom?" he calls. No answer; not even the sound of movement.

The other likely event is that Prom _is_ back, but only barely; the reason he's not around being because he got to the shower first. Damn it.

Noctis takes a deep breath, and the crown in his hair finally falls to the carpet.

Whatever. He'll get it later.

What he can do now is change his clothes and put his leg up while waiting for Prompto to get out.

Making his way to the back of the apartment yields no sound of the shower, and the pain in Noct's stomach worsens. Maybe he just got out. Maybe he's here. Maybe he's okay.

"Prompto," Noctis calls again, rounding the doorway into the bedroom. The overhead lights are off, but dim golden coming from the bathroom illuminates enough that he can tell it's empty.

"Promp-" he starts again, turning into the bathroom, when he sees silver and red contrast starkly against the white floor.

When Noct crosses the threshold it's all he can take in, the square inch of space where a pair of bloody scissors meet the tile. He can see the whole closet-sized room, but he can't absorb the consequences of what he finds. Can't seem to piece it together.

For a brief moment Noct's fifteen again, curled tightly against the door of his lavish apartment bathroom with a broken pencil sharpener, shaking and shaking and shaking apart. Hard as it is to pull out of the dissociation, this time he’s not the one in physical danger.

Prompto's the one with his back to the shower door, the scissors lilting out of his left hand. His right wrist is a mangled mess of black and red, the manifestation of his pain always so different from the careful, interlacing scars on Noct's thighs.

Reality catches up with Noctis all at once, like a Garula barreling into his gut at full speed. The breath rushes out of him and he leans a hand on the doorframe, gasping for air. Prompto doesn't even notice he's there.

It's Ignis' voice that seeps into his thoughts, advising him in a level tone to stay calm, and stay gentle. Noct has half a mind to slip back out and try to catch up with him, ask him to return so he doesn't have to be alone for this aftermath.

Noct takes a steadier breath. He stays calm, like he always has to when Prompto relapses and the memories flood back in. He speaks how he’d have wanted to hear, if someone had found him like this, all those years ago.

"Prom," he says, and the name only shakes a little bit. "Prompto."

Prompto lifts his head up maybe an inch, like the weight on his shoulders is too much to bear. His eyes are glassy, gazing nowhere near Noct's own. A barely audible, questioning grunt escapes him.

"Can you say something to me?" Noct asks. He bites his lip – one of the bad habits they’ve exchanged from living together for this long – as Prom tries to formulate a response.

" _He_ was here."

The voice is raspy, close to monotone. It sounds nothing like jittery, sunshine Prompto. Noctis bites his lip harder.

"He's  _not_  here," Noct crouches down where he's standing, far enough away not to startle Prom. "It's just me."

Prompto's bloodied arm twitches. Noct inches closer.

"Can I touch you?"

Prompto blinks, and after his eyes screw up in pain.

"Hurts," he says.

"I know," Noct says quietly. "Can I clean you up?"

Prompto's vision focuses, though not for long. In that brief moment of exhausted clarity he says, "Yeah. Please?"

Noct lets out a ragged breath, turning to dig into the cupboard under the bathroom sink. He collects the first aid kit and finds what he needs though his fingers tremble.

The injuries, at least, aren't all that bad. The cuts have clotted a long while ago, and the mess is due to Prompto not cleaning up the blood as he went along. After three or four antiseptic wipes, all that's left is the bright pink of his wounds against the impenetrable black of the barcode.

He was trying - again - to get rid of it. That much is certain.

The affected area is too large to cover up with the average sized bandages they have, long since run out due to other scrapes and scratches – intentional or otherwise. Noct sets to work with gauze and cloth instead. Prompto claws his way back to life just as Noctis ties the ends of the makeshift bandage in a tiny knot.

"Hey." Prompto's vision is focused more now, but not on him.

"Hey," Noct replies. His hand, speckled with tiny streaks of blood, slides down into Prom's right.

"Uh," Prompto starts again, his voice hoarse, "think maybe we should do something with these?"

In his quaking left hand are the scissors, still. Noctis nods, and spirits them away to the bowl of the sink above them.

They say nothing, for a moment. Prompto looks anywhere but Noctis. Noct lets him be evasive, and waits – they’ve been through this routine more times than he’d care to admit. After a certain point, muscle memory takes over.

"I'm sorry," Prompto eventually decides upon, and Noct's vocabulary deserts him. Again he wishes he'd brought Ignis, because he _never_ knows how to respond to that.

Prom continues: "I...didn't mean to hurt you like that."

"I'm more stressed about you hurting yourself," Noctis nearly snaps, and Prompto flinches. Noct takes another deep breath, trying to steady himself from saying something he'll regret.

"I'm sorry," Prom says again. "I just wanted the control, he was - he  _felt like_  he was here, and for some reason I thought I could get him out if I just –”

He pinches his lips together. Closes his eyes, and bangs his head back against the shower door.

"I thought I could control  _something_."

Noctis's thumb brushes in-between each of Prompto's knuckles. "Yeah. I know."

"Are you -” and Prompto stops before continuing, his voice creaking and cracking like the rusty metal they found him hanging in all those years ago. "Are you...mad?"

Noct looks up then. He tries his hardest to find the old spark in Prom's blue-lavender eyes, the same glitter of beauty, and passion, and joy through immeasurable sorrow that drew him to Prompto in the first place. If he were to go back and warn his younger self of the darkness lurking beneath the skin of his best friend, he probably wouldn’t believe it.

Time has not been kind to them.

"No," he says, studying Prom carefully. "No, of course not."

"Just disappointed, right?" Prom follows up, and cracks a self-deprecating grin.

"Can't…say that either."

"So what  _can_  you say?"

That's a decent question. Maybe at one point Noct had the adequate words to provide comfort, but this is a night where he’s lost them. The lines around Prompto’s mouth are set tight, and the scars across his nose and temple crinkle.

"You're worth having around. Okay?” Noctis fumbles out. “Don't go...shredding yourself up like that."

The sigh that comes out of Prompto hurts worse than he expects it to. His chest pangs with a dull and awful ache, quickly spreading.

"Look, Noct, I'm sorry," Prompto says, sliding his injured hand out of Noct's and into his hair, "But today's just...not a day where I can believe that, y'know?” He laughs, and in this context, the sound is grating. “Something fucking dumb set me off. Now all I can think about is my dad, and-and  _him_ , and what they  _thought_  about me," he starts to taper off, "and it's just, like, not happening. I don’t even know what to do.”

Noct _does_ , for once, though it’s not a comfort.

He stands to pull Prom up, and in doing so tries to hide the stab that shoots up his leg. Prompto almost falls to the floor again when he makes it to his feet, the effects of blood loss and dissociation still trickling through his system. The silence as they stagger out of the bathroom and to the bed is heavy – the words that they both wish they had the peace of mind to speak lay stifled between them.

In the end, Noctis gets his shower. When he returns to clamber into bed, Prompto is facing away from him. Noct clings to Prom’s back like a mold – the familiarity of their setup even extends to Prompto’s usual freezeup as an arm settles around his stomach.

"I'm sorry I'm not okay," he mumbles into his pillow.

Over the hill of Prompto's shoulder lies his bandaged wrist, decorated with flecks of red and pink. The rows of neat scars set into Noct's thighs burn in remembrance as he looks at it, past pain echoing razor-sharp. Eventually he opts to close his eyes, nestling into the back of his partner's neck.

"Maybe someday."


	2. make room for the other

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He doesn’t want this. He’s never wanted this. Not for him, and not for his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I didn't mention this last chapter, but this fic is quite heavily inspired by this FatM song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CvYOYkV8Ccc)
> 
> This chapter, meanwhile, is specifically inspired by [this Vienna Teng song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=whJBc5Rbwys)

_The warmth curled up at Noct's side shifts around, the covers of the motel bed rustling with it. He starts to stir, pulled slowly out of a sleep far too refreshing and good to be true - the kind that prompts one to lay abed for several more hours just to bask in its afterglow. It's a lovely morning. The sun's only been up for a precious handful of minutes, and if Noctis squints, he can see pink and lavender streaked across the sky through the blinds of the window across from the bed._

_Or he would, if Prompto wasn’t sitting up by his side, trying to sneak away from this impossible, gods-granted,_ perfect _day._

_Noct catches the edge of his boxer shorts, hooking a finger into the fabric and tugging in the most pathetically effective way possible. Prompto clearly notices, but Noct hears more than sees it - a jerk as he twists around to see what grabbed him, then a fond yet indignant huff as he notices what's holding him back._

_"Noct," Prompto says._

_"S'cold without you," Noct mumbles._

_Prom's scarred, blister-roughened fingers find his bangs, and Noct leans into the touch. He's smiling when he says, "I gotta get up. I promised Gladio a run this morning."_

_"Fuck Gladio," Noct says with all the love in his drowsy heart. "Stay."_

_Prompto laughs. Noctis doesn't think he'll ever get tired of that sound._

_"Oh yeah? And what'll you give me, bud?"_

_He has to think about that for a second._

_"Cuddles." That's obvious. "I'll talk t' Gladio for ya later, let him_ _know it's my fault."_

_"Hmm..."_

_"Come on," Noct tugs harder. "Y'know you want to."_

_Prompto goes quiet for a second, considering. He shifts again and the bed shifts with him, followed by a distant thud as he tosses something across the room._

_Then there's heat again, pressed all along Noct's side. Prom shuffles closer, bunching the sheets up awkwardly between them._

_"Big guy's gonna be ma-ad," he sing-songs, wrapping his arms around Noct's waist and nuzzling down into the crook of his neck._

_"Don't care," Noct replies, smiling and pulling him closer, twining their legs together and taking a deep breath. They're safe, warm, happy, and of all miracles, there's a lazy day ahead._

 

 

*

 

 

Noctis wakes up to a cold bed. He thought he'd felt shuffling around in the middle of the night, but had hoped that Prompto had only moved a little too far to his edge of the mattress, or got up momentarily. He reaches out to touch the rustled sheets beside him, finding they're icy cold and tacky with half-dried sweat. Noct rolls onto his back, and slams a fist down into his quilt.

_Damn it._

That too-familiar feeling blossoms through him now - a slow, poisonous ache that seeps out of his heart and down into his limbs. He closes his eyes, trying to imagine Prompto back in bed with him, arms thrown around his neck - but immediately feels guilty, and stops. The ache worsens.

The front room is cold, because the front room is fucking _always_ cold. Limping out, the first thing that Noct sees are the lights on in the kitchen. Their ancient coffeemaker – probably older than the both of them combined – has been pulled out, almost to the edge of the counter. The red lightbulb by the machine’s power switch hums amiably to itself. The pot is only a third of the way full.

Prompto’s folded himself into the spot on the couch farthest from the bedroom, a fact that Noct tries not to dwell on. Clasped in his hands is a dark-colored mug. He hasn’t noticed Noctis’s presence yet, staring glassy-eyed at a single spot by the entrance mat. Noct spares a glance towards Prom’s still-healing wrist as he walks to the dish cupboard; they’ve downsized to a sparse couple of adhesive bandages since the incident, held in place by bracelets galore. He pulls down a mug of his own, and the click of ceramic against the tiled counter causes Prompto to blink and come to with a start.

“Oh, heyaz.” He sounds tired, but catches himself and tries to change his tone to something more cheerful. His bitten lips attempt a grin. “Good morning!”

“Morning,” Noct grumbles back. He pours the remaining coffee into his mug and takes a sip. Lukewarm.

“D’you sleep ok?”

Noctis shrugs. “Same as usual.” Then, the most obvious bait possible: “You?”

Prom lapses into silence, looking down into his mug. He doesn’t look up when he says, “Ah, y’know. Same for me too, I guess.”

As another unspoken test, Noct makes his way into their living room to sit on the couch. He picks the space farthest from Prompto; the intent isn’t to pressure him into physical contact, but to see where his boundaries lie today. That being said, if he _did_ decide to scooch over and curl into Noct’s lap, Noct would absolutely not complain. His whole body throbs with how desperately he wants to be touched, comforted, _held_ right now. The ache worsens.

But once he lands on the cracked leather, Prompto actually winds yet tighter, shoulders visibly tensing. Noct’s bad knee pulses painfully, his head beginning to beat in tandem. The guilt – what he feels for craving something so blatantly not on offer – tears his broken body into chunks, and chews.

“So,” he starts, awkwardly, trying to ignore how uncomfortable Prompto looks. “That hunt you have.”

“Yeah.” Prompto straightens, wincing like the stretch is unfamiliar. “It’s looking pretty nasty. Cor says not a lot of Glaives have come back alive. I don’t think I’m gonna be back by the time you gotta leave tomorrow.”

This, sadly, Noct was expecting. He slumps down, but tries to mask the disappointment in his voice.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” Prompto interjects immediately. “I really am. I wanted to see you off.”

“It’s fine,” Noct says abruptly, and Prompto’s lackluster cheer dies away. Gods, the urge to burrow into his lap and stay there, ignoring Prom’s hunt, ignoring his own trip, proves painful to resist. Noct manages to stand instead.

“Just…don’t join Cor’s list of lost Glaives, okay?” He swallows. “Please.”

Prompto’s smile is twisted and bitter. “I won’t,” he says, quietly. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” His eyes dart around Noct’s feet, unable to reach up to his eyes. “Good luck with Angelgard. I’ve heard it’s rough out on the waters. I’m home after the hunt, so I’ll only be a text away.”

“Right,” Noct replies, but he’s already leaving the room.

 

 

*

 

 

_Noctis wakes up to the sounds of gears meshing inside the walls of this place, to the rhythmic clunking of rogue MTs patrolling the wire-strewn halls outside, and to the distant smell of motor oil and burning flesh._

_He lays on his side, his arms hung out empty in front of him on the crisp, even white sheets of his bunk. He’s all alone. He wishes he wasn’t._

_He’ll rescue Prom and pull him close, and everything will be all right again._

 

 

*

 

 

On the very edge of the city, tucked away into the corner of a large, worn-down building that borders the highway, is a church. Ancient glyphs – or very good imitations thereof – hang above the door there, representing the name of Titan, the Archean; the God that grants their metropolis power.

 _‘Granted,’_ however, is a better word choice these days. With Noctis and Ignis around, tales of the Astrals’ cruelty have circulated far and wide. No one prays to the Six for mercy anymore.

As such, while the church may have lost its original purpose, that does not mean it has been abandoned. The crumbling brick walls and rusted gate outside the door is where Noctis withdraws to, early the next morning.

He hates this building. It’s a representation of every damn thing that’s gone wrong on this journey, everything that has torn his family apart. Years and years ago, when it was just Noct and Ignis going off on expeditions, they would meet in either of their apartments to set out. But with Gladio now beginning to join them – and sometimes a host of glaives with him – they need the extra space to plan and pack, not to mention the privacy.

Despite the fire that sears through Noct’s veins every time he looks up to meet those glyphs, there’s something undeniably appropriate about their meeting place. The rage he feels is almost enough to remind him why he is fighting so hard to stay alive.

Ignis and Gladio, of course, have already arrived long before him. There are no glaives coming with them today, though perhaps there should be. It’s a three, four day trip down to Galdin Quay in the Dark, and on top of that, there’s not many survivors left of those who have attempted to brave the sea. The worry isn’t of Noct’s safety – no, because the Gods need him _alive_ – but of Ignis and Gladio, who he’s almost lost if not for a hair’s breadth of magic, or luck, probably a dozen times each. When he slips through the ornate door leading into the chapel, the two other men startle. Gladio looks up from the papers scattered all around a table near the altar, and Ignis blinks his scarred, milky eyes in Noct’s direction.

Gladio smirks. That’s the one thing he hasn’t seem to have lost, of all of them.

“Morning, Princess.” The nickname reminds Noctis of better times. The ache worsens. “Hope you managed to get some beauty sleep.”

“Did you?” Noct throws back, not entirely out of snark. Gladio just grins wider, and shakes his head.

Ignis frowns. “No Prompto?”

In the very back of the little church, Noct hopes he’s far enough away that Gladio can’t see the way he deflates at the question.

“He had that hunt up by Steyliff. Couldn’t make it to say goodbye.”

Ignis sighs, but collects a stack of his papers and tidies them. “Well, should all go according to plan, you’ll see him again.”

A small, traitorous voice in the back of Noct’s head whispers: _if he even wants you around._

Noct clenches his fists. “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Silence descends upon the hall. If Noctis were to squint, he might see Gladio’s eyes narrow slightly. Instead he begins down the aisle towards the two of them, gliding between the pews like an ancient, pale ghost.

“What’s the game plan?” he asks, changing the subject. Ignis is able to take over now, his tactician’s mind ramping up into high gear.

“Simple enough, on paper. We drive to the Quay in a truck supplied to us by the Glaives. At the docks, the boat awaits.”

“Then we try not to die,” Gladio interrupts.

Noctis stops when he reaches them. “You haven’t come up with anything better than that?”

Ignis presses his lips into a thin line. “The boat is equipped with floodlights, engineered at Hammerhead to survive being submerged in water. Gladio and I will be on guard for any unwanted visitors – from there, you’ll have to drive.”

“Great. Because I’m so good at that.”

“Noctis, as much as I am loathe to say it out loud, you are indeed a passable driver.”

“That doesn’t mean you get to drive _down_ _there_ , though,” Gladio adds.

Noct cuts to the chase. “What happens when we get to Angelgard?”

“That,” Ignis begins, and Noct’s sight drifts to the starry paintings on the ceiling of the church, the dusty wooden rafters that he’s surprised haven’t come down on top of them yet, “is up to the Astrals. We might not get anywhere with trip."

Noctis closes his eyes, breathing. His unwanted magic – the Crystal’s magic – flows in currents through his body, the feeling a steady stream he’s adapted to since childhood.

He doesn’t want this. He’s never wanted this. Not for him, and not for his family.

“It’s worth a shot,” he says. “It’s the only thing we haven’t tried.” He looks at Ignis and Gladio in turn – “Thank you. For taking this on with me.”

“Anything,” Ignis says matter-of-factly. Gladio bows, slightly.

Noctis will tear those stars down from the heavens and the Gods from their thrones just to end all of this pain.

 

 

*

 

 

“Hey.”

They’ve just finished packing the truck, Ignis off a few yards away making a phone call to Cor. A warm hand rests on Noct’s shoulder, and by the Gods, it’s the best thing he’s felt for days. Noctis wants more than anything to melt into the touch, but he turns instead and is met with Gladio. He retracts his hand almost immediately, folding his arms across his chest. Noct sulks.

“Hey. What’s up? Seating positions?”

“Heh. You already know how that’s workin’ out, Charmless. You’re sittin’ in the middle on the way down, just like you always do.”

“Great. I’m gonna get elbowed constantly while we drive for our lives.”

“It’s safer,” Gladio says, and leaves it at that. “Nah. I wanted to ask you about Prompto.”

Noct stiffens, and his eyes squeeze shut without him meaning to. “What about him?”

“You guys okay? Something going on between you two?”

He says nothing, for a beat. “C’mon, let’s just go get Ignis – “

“Hell no.” Gladio stands shoulder width apart, planting himself firmly in front of Noct. “I am not gonna let you get out of this one. You can’t fight if you’re distracted by guy troubles. Just talk and we can get this over with.”

Despite the gruff words, Gladio’s eyes are tired. He seems almost sympathetic this time – so far away from the rage he carried all through the road trip. Maybe having a sister on the battlefield and a steady partner for so long has softened him up a bit. Either way, Noctis caves fast, all his confused words stumbling out into a pile at their feet.

“Prompto, he’s – I think he’s…mad at me. Or, well, he’s just upset. He’s always fucking upset lately. Nightmares are kicking his ass and I think I just – “

He stops short.

“Hey,” Gladio prompts. “Go on. I’m here.”

Noctis takes a breath in.

“I think I remind him of…Him.”

The last word comes out in a breathy rush, carrying with it a distinct aftertaste of metal and ozone and pain.

Gladio nods, considering. Then: “Well, that’s easy. You’re not Ardyn.”

Noctis visibly flinches at the name. “Try telling Prompto that.”

“Noct, Prompto knows too. Fuck, the kid’s probably beating himself up for that fact right now. He loves the hell outta you, you know.”

“Then why doesn’t he…” Noctis starts, but then cuts himself off. He knows he sounds like a petulant child not getting his way.

“Then why doesn’t he what?”

But Noct’s shaking his head, withdrawing into himself. His shoulders hunch. He feels nothing like the King he’s supposed to be.

_Why doesn’t he give me any comfort when I need it?_

“Nothing. It’s fine.”

And that is Noct’s last word on the topic.

Gladio looks down on him like a judge delivering his final verdict. Noct closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing. He can’t cry in front of Gladio. Not before they’re about to leave on a life-or-death mission.

And then, the same hand that spun him around rests on the crown of his head. Heat emanates through Gladio’s skin and into Noct’s skull, causing his face to flush. Noctis stands a little taller, in an effort to somehow press the hand closer to his hair.

“Kid,” Gladio sighs fondly, fingers starting to brush through his long hair, “he’s fucked up just like you. Maybe you’ve got different ways of coping. But the two of you are going to be fine. Got it?”

Noctis nods. It’s rare to get Gladio soft like this, even though his tone still leaves no room for argument.

“Good. Now get your head outta the clouds – we have a trip to survive.”

“Right,” Noct says – but Gladio’s still eyeing him.

“Do you need a hug?”

Noct blinks. The ache that he’s carried with him for the past two days surges, sudden and horrible, crashing against his soul before dissipating like the tide.

All he can do is nod.

Prompto is Noct’s best friend, his partner in crime, the man he _loves_ , the man he would and, indeed has gone to the ends of Eos to rescue – but Gladio’s hugs are the greatest on this planet, bar none.

He folds Noctis close to him, arms closing around his back as he presses him, _tight_ , to the buttons on his Glaive uniform. If this were a more light-hearted situation, Gladio might try to pick him up, bragging about how much he can lift. Instead, Noct’s arms reach up behind him to his shoulders. They stand together until the shrieking emptiness within Noctis goes still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very bitter I am not at kupocon, thank you for asking
> 
> But I have a Twitter now! [@darlathecyborg](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


	3. breaking you with gentle hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you know why we’re here, Noct?”

The truck lurches for what must be the hundredth time that day, and Noctis startles just like he did the first time it happened.

His hands shake, actually visibly _shake_ , as he feels for the grab handle above him. With his other hand he grasps onto the fabric of his pants, bunching it up, nails barely holding back from digging into the flesh of his thigh. He bites down on his lip, hard.

“Are you alright?” Ignis asks from next to him, and damn it, Noct must have let a whimper escape. He resolves to not let it happen again.

“I’m fine,” he replies.

Ignis doesn’t follow up, and for that Noct’s grateful, because the longer he has to sit in this fucking truck, the more his leg aches and his head hurts and he can feel himself de-aging, returning to being a sleepy little kid, nodding off right before –

The truck bangs against the uneven road again, and if Noctis bites his lip any harder, he thinks he’s going to draw blood. He tries to take a breath, but it’s not enough. Instead he takes another, and another, and another, all in rapid succession until there’s the sound of a metallic click next to him and Ignis is risking his own safety to reach for both of Noct’s quaking hands.

“Noct. Noctis. Noctis Lucis Caelum.”

A shudder goes through the vehicle again, and when Noctis looks out the window, he swears he can see fire glinting off of broken glass.

“I c-can’t, I _can’t_ , Specs – “

“Don’t. I need you to start breathing for me, _now_. I’ll count.”

And he does, his Tenebraen accent evenly repeating _one-two-three-four_ as he pulls Noct’s hands off the grab handle and his pants, respectively. There’s a failed start, or two, or ten, but eventually Noctis’s body begins to understand the gist of the exercise and he breathes to the sound of the numbers.

His eyes fall closed, and gods, he can still see the blood. He can still feel the tremors of the fight between Dad and the Marilith, the combined light of fire and magic burning behind his eyelids.

“Noctis,” Ignis begins once his breathing has settled a little, “there is no point in telling you that you are safe here, because you aren’t. But I can assure you that the fight you're dwelling on is no longer of concern. The Marilith is dead, and there aren’t Niflheim soldiers around for miles.”

Noctis tries to nod, but the movement is swallowed by another jerk of the truck.

“Can you _please_ try and drive more carefully?” Ignis snaps at Gladio.

“Funny how you don’t think I’m trying,” Gladio snaps right back.

His attention returns to Noctis – Noct can hear the sigh from behind closed eyes.

“Noct. I want you to open your eyes and name five things that you can see in this car. Alright? Only five.”

That sounds doable, and Noctis nods again.

He opens his eyes and is met with Ignis’s scarred ones right below him as he kneels on the floor of the truck.

“Try to remember to keep breathing,” Ignis tacks on, and Noctis attempts to.

“I see you,” Noctis says, and he tries so hard to control the guilt that he feels when he looks at his marred face.

Ignis nods, squeezing his hands. “That’s one.”

Noct looks around the interior of the truck, swiveling his head about and looking for something worth noting.

“I see Gladio’s stupid ponytail,” he continues, as Gladio smiles and yells, “Shove it!”

“Two,” Ignis says, smiling a little himself.

“There’s a…road map for Cleigne in the seat pocket behind you.”

“Three.” Ignis’s voice is an anchor.

“The windows. They’re not broken.”

“Four. No, they’re not.”

“I see the light by the stereo. The CD player is lit up.”

“Too bad we don’t have any tunes,” Gladio chips in.

“Five – lost them, with the Regalia. Did that help, Noct?”

Another bump in the road, another jolt of the truck, and Noctis shudders – but he holds on tight.

“Better.”

“Good.”

Ignis moves up from the floor and onto the seat beside Noct. He hasn’t let go of his hands.

“We’re gonna stop soon – Leide’s coming up.” Gladio flicks a glance over his shoulder at Noctis. “Think you can hold on ‘till then?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“I mean, not really.”

Noct grits his teeth. “Then I’ll be fine. Just keep driving.”

“Tap the back of my hand if it gets worse,” Ignis insists. “We shall go through the exercise as often as you need to.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Noctis feels like he can breathe again, but loss carves into him like the swords of a daemon.

 

*

 

 

It’s raining when they make it to the Haven. The miasma combines with the water, creating fat droplets that _splatter_ when they hit something – notably, the roof of the tent.

Ignis’s fingertips touch the tip of the ointment bottle, then brush against the matching series of half-moon marks in Noct’s upper arms.

“Do you know why we’re here, Noct?” he asks, reaching back down to his lap again for more. Noct’s arms sting even worse now than they originally did, and he’s dreading the second wipe of medicine.

“Because the daemons started coming after us while I was having a panic attack?”

“No.”

“Because Gladio’s a shitty driver?”

“We’re all ‘shitty drivers’ these days. _Noctis_ ,” Ignis presses, and he sounds genuinely pissed. He pulls away from applying the second coating of ointment with a fervor, and wipes his fingers on a handkerchief stained brown with old blood.

“It’s been six years, Noctis. Six years, and I haven’t left your side. Neither has Gladio. We _want_ to be here. We are grateful and _humbled_ to be here. We _love_ you, for Astrals’ sake. And I know how hard – “

He stops. Ignis pulls his sunglasses down off his face and wipes them with the edge of his coat, a habit from simpler times. Noctis can’t look away from the pained crease of his brow, the sober press of his lips. From the dark outlines around his eyes, barely defined in the dim light of the tent.

“I understand how difficult it is to…enjoy one’s self. I am not asking you to do so.” He takes a breath, following his own internal countdown. “I merely wish to point out – we have _all_ sacrificed so that you might live. Not so you can blindly follow fate and the plans of the Astrals, tempting though oblivion might sound. You know more than enough about me. Gladio endured the trials, has stepped in front of you myriad times. And Prompto – “

Noctis’s whole body tenses. He has the urge to burrow his nails deep into his skin once more. He doesn’t, barely.

“We all know about Prompto,” he finishes delicately. “And none of these are your fault, nor ours, really. But what would make it worth it, for all of us,” the fire snaps back into his voice, “is if you tried to give a _damn_ about yourself.”

Noct’s mind goes blank. The words don’t make sense.

“What?”

“It’s not easy. But if we’re all risking our lives to keep you on this star, why on Eos should you not be valuing your own? It’s no wonder it’s been so difficult for you to talk to Prompto.”

Embarrassment and rage flame through Noct’s face; he curls his hands into fists and glares as defiantly up at Ignis as he did when the man could still see.

“Prompto was raped and tortured, and you think _that’s_ our problem?”

“I think that Prompto’s journey to recovery is a far different path than yours, and you are doing _nothing_ to help him by beating yourself up about it!”

Ignis hasn’t raised his voice like that in – years. The outburst leaves him unusually ruffled, chest heaving.

“I did this,” he gestures to his face, “for you, Noct. Not because you are my charge, but because you are my closest, most trusted friend. If I called Gladio in here he would say the same thing. Prompto suffered unimaginable things because he was terrified you might get hurt. We are here, now, so that we can all recover together. Grow old together. We want you at our side long into the future, and it would be appreciated if you felt the same.”

Noct stares ahead, vision blurring. Ignis replaces his sunglasses and stands, saying something about fetching Gladio and the hot water.

The lamplight in the tent casts long shadows across the canvas walls.

 

 

*

 

_This is the coldest place Noctis has ever been._

_Insomnia’s winters can be harsh, but nothing quite like this; besides the train tracks he finds himself standing atop, white stretches out around him for miles and miles. Nothing else disturbs the snow, a picturesque landscape of blank hills and valleys._

_He looks down to his sneakers. They’re the same ones he had as a kid, a dingy white compared to the fat flakes that are sticking to the toe. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt too, ratted at the edges and too thin for the weather. Noctis reaches up and rubs at his arms, hoping the friction against his skin will create heat._

_He needs to gets somewhere warm, and fast. A gigantic cloud is moving in from the east, and the wind is picking up with it, sending snow spiraling around him._

_Noct starts walking with his stick-thin kid legs, covering much less ground than he’s used to. His knee doesn’t hurt as much as it normally does, but it’s a bad trade-off nonetheless. He trudges ahead, still rubbing against his upper arms, as the snow gets thicker. There are several steps he takes where he sinks down into the cold of it, icy water flooding into his sneakers as he scrambles to regain his footing. The further he goes, the higher it gets – eventually the snow has reached up to his knees and he can’t fight it any longer, falling down into the powdery nothing._

_The wind picks up as he collapses, a particularly nasty chill that has nothing to do with the weather._

_“Aww, look at you,” comes a voice from the sky, and the anger and fear that floods through Noct’s tiny body feels like almost enough to burn a hole through him. “Have you given up already?”_

_Snow blizzards down._

_“It’s truly so much easier to lie there than to brave the storm. I should know, child. But not to worry – soon enough you’ll feel a delicious warmth, and the world will finally go quiet.”_

_Noctis hates that man. He_ hates _that man, but even his brain feels frozen – he can’t puzzle out why it is he feels that way. If anything the words sound comforting, though the voice itself reminds him of toppled cars and firelight and three a.m. screaming._

_But all he wants is that warmth, right now. All he wants is the peace._

_Noct closes his eyes, and in the snow next to him, his phone buzzes._

 

 

*

Noctis blinks awake from the dream, only to discover that he _is_ genuinely cold. His heart races from the memory of Ardyn’s voice – even with a dry throat he tries to swallow, to gulp down calming breaths. His phone buzzes again and he reaches for it, tapping the screen on while curling warmer in his bed roll.

_quicksilver: are u around_

_quicksilver: i had a nightmare…rly bad_

He opens the app, typing a quick response.

_nightlight: Yeah?_

_quicksilver: yeah_

_nightlight: Did you want to talk about it?_

A pause. It’s long enough that Noct turns the screen of his phone off, resting the glass against his chest. He exhales, his breath fogging a little in the air in front of him. When the phone vibrates again, light slips under the edges of its case and onto the tank he’s wearing, one of Prompto’s.

_quicksilver: yeah_

Prompto types.

_quicksilver: i never escaped_

_quicksilver: u never came_

_quicksilver: there were bunks_

_nightlight: Like the ones we slept on?_

_quicksilver: yeah_

_quicksilver: i was chained to 1 of em_

_quicksilver: and he just…did it. over and over and over. and fucking gloated abt it_

_quicksilver: couldnt scream, which is different…he really wanted to hear me…back then_

_quicksilver: thats how i woke up_

Noctis touches the top of his phone to his forehead and closes his eyes, as if he presses hard enough his love will travel through the device and enfold Prompto, safe and sound.

Then he replies.

_nightlight: I’m so sorry, Prom._

_nightlight: Fuck him._

_quicksilver: lol_

_quicksilver: maybe don’t use that phrase_

_nightlight: Oh_

_nightlight: Sorry._

_quicksilver: lmao_

_quicksilver: thanks babe <3_

Guilt washes through Noct, mixing with exhaustion into noxious cocktail. His leg’s starting to hurt too – a perfect shitstorm of mental and physical pain. Astrals know how he’s going to be able to sleep again after this.

_quicksilver: why were u awake anyway?_

His heartbeat stutters. Would it hurt Prom if he told the truth?

_nightlight: Same as you_

_quicksilver: oh._

He doesn’t say anything after that. The silence this time is long enough that Noct thinks that he’s managed to get back to sleep, before the phone lights up again.

_quicksilver: u don’t deserve that yknow?_

Noctis cringes. He sees Ignis’s face twisted in loving fury, and has trouble finding his breath again.

_nightlight: I should be the one saying that. You’ve never deserved any of this._

_quicksilver: ngl, hard to believe when it comes back so often_

And here they are, talking past each other once again.

_quicksilver: but now i have coffee, so thats something!_

_quicksilver: i guess ill just…start on todays work. maybe cor has something 4 me to do rn_

_quicksilver: where r u guys?_

_nightlight: Northern Leide. Up by where Prairie Outpost used to be._

_quicksilver: oof. bet ur freezing ur tits off_

_nightlight: lol, definitely._

_nightlight: Hey…_

He types it before he knows what he wants to say. There’s something that’s bothering him, and the feeling that he can’t let this conversation end without voicing whatever it is seizes him, squeezing his chest until it hurts.

_nightlight: If I come back alive, we should do something. Take a day off. Mess around like old times._

The indication of Prompto’s typing stutters to uncertain life, stopping and starting for far too long a time.

_quicksilver: “if”?_

_quicksilver: didnt u just leave begging me not to die myself?_

Noctis sets his phone down in the swirl of his bedding. He can’t believe that he just made things worse, but somehow, he did. He’s powerless to watch the hurt unfold on the tiny screen in front of him as Prompto continues steadily typing.

_quicksilver: its like you don’t even know what id do if you weren’t around._

_quicksilver: besides, the gods just_

He stops, and the train of thought never continues beyond that.

_quicksilver: never mind. its just kinda hypocritical._

_quicksilver: sorry_

_nightlight: No. It’s fine._

_nightlight: I’m sorry. Wish I was there to help._

_quicksilver: yeah_

_quicksilver: me too_

Prompto doesn’t offer anything beyond that.

Noctis shoves his phone inside of his pillow, praying that it doesn’t buzz for the rest of the night. He readjusts, and even though he’s buried inside a cocoon of three different blankets he swears he can still feel the rock floor of the Haven below him, rough and cold and impossible to sleep on.

In the time he’s been up, his sight has adjusted to the blackness of the tent. Looking around, he can see the forms of his retainers on either side of him – Gladio on his stomach, snoring lightly, and Ignis on the side facing away from Noct, hair sticking up near where his sunglasses rest.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says aloud, and only the Astrals hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk I just have this headcanon that Ignis and Regis absolutely drilled texting manners into Noctis and he's never quite been able to shake that tbh
> 
> [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yMZcCy3vKpU)
> 
> twitter: [@darlathecyborg](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


	4. wreckage (interlude II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He makes coffee before 6 A.M. like he has for two weeks now.

Prompto is tired.

He comes awake at 4:38 A.M. with a gnawing headache and the feeling of Ardyn’s presence draped around his shoulders like a weighted blanket. His eyelids are heavy and he wishes he could go back to sleep, but sleep has dreams, and dreams have fear and pain and _don’t you know you are only good for one thing, dear boy._

The apartment is quieter without Noctis, both a blessing and a curse. It’s not like Noct makes a whole lot of noise to begin with, but there’s always the little things: the rustling next to him in bed; the muffled sounds of the shower running, or of reusable bandages being pulled apart; the dirty dishes in the sink. That ounce of familiarity, sometimes frustrating, often comforting, is nowhere to be found today.

He makes coffee before 6 A.M. like he has for two weeks now. The apartment feels nothing like the warm hug that Noct’s old one used to be before Insomnia burned, nor like it did when they first got together, a tiny bastion of light and safety in the middle of a dark, dark world.

These days, especially when he’s alone inside it, the apartment feels like the house he grew up in – cold, clean lines that matched the layout of every other house in the neighborhood; ancient appliances; deafening silence; uncertainty around every corner. He has this blessing, at least: these feelings existed before magic and war and pain like he’s never known. Prompto would live in that house alone forever, with shitty neglectful parents and below average self-esteem, if it would only erase the events that keep him up at night.

Instead it looks like things are ending up the inverse – Prompto here, alone and frightened and full of a surprising hatred, for the rest of his miserable life, while his brain compiles a highlights reel of everything that happened after getting lost in the snow.

He takes a gulp of the coffee. Cream and sugar have reduced how hot it is, but not by enough. He swears about his burned tongue, and falls heavily into a seat at the tiny dining table, texting Cor.

_quicksilver: awake. what do u guys need today?_

It takes him a while to reply, which Prom doesn’t blame him for. No reason he should be up at this hour of the morning too. But when Cor finally does send something and Prompto reopens the app to view the message, his stomach drops to his feet.

_Leonis114: No missions for you today, Argentum._

_quicksilver: what?_

_quicksilver: what about those mindflayers by the waterfall? the hunt we talked about yesterday?_

_Leonis114: I’ve already dispatched a team._

_quicksilver: bullshit. when?_

_Leonis114: Is that any way to talk to your superior officer?_

Prompto barely catches himself, chest heaving, fingers trembling over the keyboard.

_quicksilver: you’re right. sorry, sir._

_quicksilver: but there’s gotta be something. send me to meldacio or ravatogh, i don’t care. hell, id even be willing to go to costlemark._

_quicksilver: seriously. anything._

_Leonis114: When did you become the type to take your frustration out by fighting?_

Prompto gapes at his phone, dumbfounded.

_quicksilver: Sir? ive been a glaive for 6 years._

_Leonis114: Again, watch your tone._

_Leonis114: Your contribution to the Kingsglaive is duly noted and more than appreciated. You're one of our best. But your behavior this past month is worrying._

_quicksilver: i just wanna help._

_Leonis114: Maybe. You also want to hurt yourself._

_quicksilver: who got to you, anyway? ignis? noct?_

_Leonis114: No one "got to me."_

_Leonis114: Prompto._

_Leonis114: You'd be surprised how many Glaives I've had to reassign because of this same problem._

_quicksilver: "same" my ass. u dont get it. no one does._

_Leonis114: We all understand more than you think._

_Leonis114: Regardless. I won't be sending you to your death this morning, but I understand that you still need something to do._

_Leonis114: You're on greenhouse duty. The lady who runs it'll be happy to see you._

He wants to drink more coffee, but he's too stunned to do so. The burn from earlier is a bumpy patch on the far side of his tongue that turns raw and painful when his teeth catch it.

_quicksilver: and what if i dont wanna go?_

_Leonis114: Then you’re free to stay at home and relax, if you can. You need a break._

_Leonis114: You need to do something kind for yourself._

And with that, Prompto turns off the screen and slams his vibrating phone down on the kitchen table. He closes his eyes to think about it – feels hot breath and stubble on the side of his neck, and decides to keep them open. His skin starts to prickle, and the hallucinations are trickling back in, hands settling around the midpoint of his waist before sliding down to his hips, and all he wants is for it to stop, stop, _stop_.

 _Do something kind for yourself._ Fuck that. Fuck _everything_. Why do these people keep trying to half-assedly save him? What’s in it for them, anyway? Shouldn’t it be obvious at this point how much pain _living_ causes him?

His body slackens suddenly. His eyes go a little wide. The hallucinations don’t quite go away but they lessen, enough that Prompto doesn’t pay them any more mind. He opens his phone, ignores Cor’s final texts to find his last conversation with Noctis, the one from days and days ago that had left him with a fitful and tear-stained sleep.

_nightlight: If I come back alive, we should do something. Take a day off. Mess around like old times._

_quicksilver: “if”?_

He closes his phone again.

_Oh, Noct._

_I’m so sorry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually ever intend on writing this, but it felt important.
> 
> [twitter: darlathecyborg](https://twitter.com/darlathecyborg)


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